


Love the Fallen Seeds

by deaddove



Series: Teaspoons [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Omega Peter, Omega Stiles, play mating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddove/pseuds/deaddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What if I refer you to a private play mating coach?” Stiles' doctor asks. “Another Omega.”</p><p>Peter Hale is only one of the many Hales to be involved in Omega wellness and sexual education. He doesn't mind one bit helping Stiles learn what his body needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love the Fallen Seeds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Diablerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablerie/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, [Diablerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablerie)!
> 
> And a [short playlist](https://8tracks.com/cannibalinc/teaspoon) because I have zero restraint.
> 
> Thanks so much for being my beta, [Bones!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesOfBirdWings)

_Nothing is sweeter than the fruit that holds tight._  
_Tight through the wind and all the creatures at night._  
_But I love the fallen seeds._  
_Premature and always in some kind of need._

* * *

 

The house looks different. Stiles presses his nose against the passenger window to get a better look. The old pear tree that used to attract ants and wasps has been cut down, its raw stump marked with a small red flag to be dug up later. The pothole in the driveway left over from the basketball stand falling over four summers ago has been filled. There's a kid throwing a frisbee around.

"Well, it's not looking too bad," his dad says, squeezing the steering wheel and twisting his hands along the grip. "Your mother would have hated that garage paneling."

Stiles shrugs.

"Okay, let's go home."

The apartment is stacked all the way to the ceiling with boxes. It takes them ages to sort through it all. They get sidetracked easily, Stiles coaxing his dad into a nerf war when the latest box proves to be filled with nerf guns and darts. When it's dark, they eat bologna and cucumber sandwiches. They have to tear the cellophane off the couch before they can lounge and stare silently at the blank wall, chewing.

"Should have unpacked the TV first," Stiles sighs, flopping against the cushions.

His dad laughs and pats his thigh.

"I'm off to bed. I've got my first day of work tomorrow." He hesitates, looming. "Are you... Are you going to call Scott? I wrote his house number down for you."

Stiles feels his face crumple a bit. He shrugs. His dad sighs and runs his hand over Stiles' hair.

"Night, son."

Stiles curls up on the coarse couch in the dark. He feels different now, like the couple of years he spent away from Beacon Hills have corroded more with every minute spent back.

He feels young.

Stiles shivers, and twists until he can bury his face into the stiff couch fabric.

Scott drops both his jaw and his books when he sees Stiles Wednesday morning on the first day of junior high.

“Stiles?!” he shouts, and several kids startle. He takes a huge step forward, trampling right over his bent math book, and stands in front of Stiles, vibrating in place. His hair is longer, flopping over his forehead and ears and curling around his dimples. Stiles… is really happy to see him.

“Hi,” he mumbles and scoots forward with shuffling feet until he can rest his chin on Scott’s shoulder and hug him around the middle.

“Bro!” Scott exclaims and returns the hug. “I missed you!”

Scott follows him around all day, even to classes they don’t have together. He’s reacquianted with all of Scott’s quirks and mannerisms, and if there’s a shadow of Mr. McCall’s bone structure in his face, it only bothers Stiles a little.

School is loud and messy, and no one remembers why Stiles left Beacon Hills except for the teachers, who stare too long when they see him in their classrooms. The kids don’t care about him in the same way they don’t care about any other stranger, and it’s a relief to know it’s not much different from Seattle.

Allison Argent gives him a small smile when she passes him in the hall, and it feels a little something like triumph.

His dad takes him to the Omega clinic on the weekend.

“Stiles, you’re looking healthy,” Dr. Drew tells him as she records his blood pressure and listens to his breathing. “It’s good to see you.”

Stiles shrugs. His dad and a nurse are talking quietly in the hall, flipping through paperwork and updated insurance forms. Stiles knows these checkups are paid for by the federal government, but the therapy Stiles has been going to once a month for the past two years is an out-of-pocket cost. As the Sheriff, his dad could have had an easier time paying, but, as Stiles had listened in on the phone before they had moved, that was no longer a possibility.

“It’s not that we don’t respect your work or that you left on bad terms, John. It’s just, with the scandal… the department’s PR doesn’t want the attention again. I’m sorry.”

His dad works as a security manager now, for a chemical plant just outside of town. It isn’t as secure as being Sheriff, nor as lucrative. Stiles doesn’t know who’s the Sheriff of Beacon Hills now.  

“So, you’ve got a couple of psuedo-heats approaching in the next couple of years before you hit Heat,” Dr. Drew tells him after she finishes jotting down numbers and ticking boxes. She looks up. “But you’ve still opted out of play mating classes.”

Stiles fidgets around on the table uncomfortably. “Um.”

Dr. Drew seems to backpedal.

“It isn’t mandatory, and you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Play mating is a mechanism for you to prepare for your heat and help you learn to translate and grow comfortable with responding to your own biological cues. The benefits are numerous, but there are a number of youths who go through life just fine without ever attending a lesson.”

“I, um.” Stiles swallows. “I already had a psuedo-heat. Last month.”

It’s part of the reason they returned to Beacon Hills – so Stiles could be with the clinic with which he’s most comfortable.

“Oh?” Dr. Drew asks, adding a few notes to Stiles’ chart.

“It wasn’t… very good.”

He’d ended up clawing himself up pretty badly, and the whole experience had horrified both himself and his dad.

She convinces Stiles to try a group play date at the facility for the next weekend.

“There are several kids from your school in the class, and they’re quite precocious. They’ll help you learn the ropes.”

She pats him on the back and gives him a blow-pop with a kind smile.

Scott and Ms. Melissa live in a different neighborhood now, too. His dad walks with him to the door and stays the entire duration of the visit. It’s a nice house with lots of room. There’s only one photo in the entire place, a picture of Scott and his mom grinning in front the ocean. When he calls her Mrs. McCall without thinking, she calmly corrects him.

“We aren’t McCalls anymore, champ. Ms. Melissa is just fine.”

Scott and Stiles play jenga in the living room and eat crackers and spray cheese while Ms. Melissa and his dad clang around in the kitchen making dinner together. It’s… nice. Stiles relaxes into the couch and laughs with Scott when the jenga tower wobbles precariously. There are cracker crumbs in the creases of the couch and Scott has got a cowlick on the back of his head from where he grabs it in suspense while watching Stiles pull out another piece in their crumbling tower.

When Stiles and his dad finally go home, Stiles feels soft and warm. His dad doesn’t even try to refuse him when he asks to sleep with him on his air mattress, and they curl up together, content and safe.

He is not so relaxed when his dad checks him in at the Omega clinic for a play mating session and is told he must wait outside with the other parents at the door to the gymnasium. Stiles breathes heavily.

“Hey, buddy, looking a little green around the edges,” a young woman says, approaching Stiles.  He is only just keeping from clinging to his dad’s arm. He wonders if the trepidation is obvious on his face. “Is this your first time coming to a group play date?”

Stiles nods mutely.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she winks. “New kids are my specialty, so you’re in good hands today. My name is Laura Hale, and I’m head coach here at the clinic. Why don’t I walk you through the lobby and snack room before we go to the gym, okay? What’s your name?”

“Stiles,” he murmurs, squeezing his dad’s hand.

Laura pauses, her eyes snapping to his dad sharply before turning her attention back to him. Stiles feels his face burn. He looks away from her eyes and down to her bright green t-shirt. It has the Omega clinic logo printed in white on the front, and there is a name tag over her left breast. It reads LAURA and underneath it in smaller letters, ALPHA.

“Nice to meet you, Stiles,” she says, grinning.

She shows him where the other parents mill about in the lobby where there are large windows looking into the spacious gym. Through the windows, Stiles can see kids his age chatting, laughing, and grappling with one another, writhing on the floor in heaps. Sometimes he can’t tell if they are play mating or outright brawling.

“Your dad can watch out for you here, to make sure you’re getting the care you need,” Laura tells him, then points to each of the corners inside the gym. “As you can see, there are also coaches on standby to guide kids who are a little overwhelmed and to de-escalate any serious altercations.”

“You are always free to leave at any point during your visit. You can always reject anyone who comes up to you, and you can ask to engage with anyone you want. Just be polite, and you’ll get a good reception most of the time.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder, her smile slipping away. “And Stiles? If you ever see anyone in the gymnasium who doesn’t have a coach shirt on or isn’t another kid in your age group here to play mate, tell a coach immediately.”

Stiles nods. He glances around the lobby nervously at the parents seated in lounge chairs and grazing at the snack bar.

“Parents aren’t allowed in either, unless there’s an emergency,” she tells him with finality. “Parents, or anyone for that matter, who display inappropriate or suspicious behavior are immediately ejected from the premise and reported.”

Stiles likes how Laura talks to him like an adult. She speaks frankly, with the assumption Stiles is following her every word, and doesn’t try to disguise her meaning. He looks up at his dad and is relieved to see him looking more at ease, seemingly as appreciative of Laura as he is.

“Do you want to go in? Should I show you to the locker room and get you a set of clothes to play in?” Laura asks, her grin back in full force.

Stiles looks at his dad again, suddenly nervous. His dad smiles weakly back.

Stiles slowly lets go of his hand and grips the hem of his shirt.

“Okay,” he whispers.

The locker room is just on the other side of the lobby. It splits into different sections by dynamic and gender, as well as an unmarked section that Laura says is for a-gender or a-dynamic individuals.

“Do you identify as a particular gender and dynamic?” she asks, like it’s a standard question.

Stiles considers, never having been asked before. He settles for what he knows for now.

“Um. Omega? Boy?”

Laura just nods and leads him to the right. She knocks on the door labeled OY and asks if she can come in.

There are a couple of coaches sitting at a desk in a small room that opens up to the actual changing room. Their name tags say OMEGA.

“Got a newcomer, guys. Can you set him up with a set of shirt and shorts and show him the lockers?”

Laura leaves him to get changed. The locker room has a curtained shower section along one wall and a shelf of lockers along the other. The shirt and shorts they give him are nondescript except for the small OY embroidered on the corner of the shirt in deep blue.

“You can leave your shoes in the locker too,” the coach tells him. “They’re not allowed on the gymnasium mats.”

Stiles exits the locker rooms wearing his new outfit, socked feet cold on the linoleum floors.

“Ready?” Laura asks, seeing him from her place by the gym windows.

“Mm-hm,” Stiles mumbles, his voice feeling a little feeble.

When Laura opens one of the doors and takes him inside, the smell and noise are a lot to deal with. He has to take a couple of sputtering breaths through his mouth to keep from coughing. It smells like dirty laundry and sweat, but for some reason it isn’t so bad as it is strong.

The group is a lot more diverse than Stiles is used to – an array of Alphas, Omegas, and Betas, boys and girls. He wonders briefly how many of them are actually none of those, or a more than one at the same time even, and he just can’t tell. In Seattle, he hadn’t gone to school the first year, attending instead a series of limited seminars for emotional support and trauma management. The second year, he’d agreed to go back, but only to an all-Omega prep school. Dynamic and gender hadn’t really come up there.

It had been comforting to be surrounded by his own dynamic, but he’d quickly learned that Omegas are just as violent or gentle as any other person. It had grown stifling.

This is stifling in another way entirely.

“Stiles!”

Scott waves to him from a group of kids clustered together, talking loudly. Relieved, Stiles hesitantly weaves through the moving bodies until he can reach Scott. “Guys, this is Stiles. He’s never been to a group session before.”

“Really?” a girl asks, and belatedly Stiles recognizes her as Lydia Martin. She glances over Stiles and smiles. “Didn’t you live here before?”

Stiles shrugs. “Um. Wanna?”

He gestures in a stilted way towards the floor mats where there are other kids rolling around. Lydia’s hair is shorter than he remembers, cut right at her jaw, her bangs sliced straight across her jaw. It looks very soft. Lydia takes his hand and drags him to the mats.

“Dude…!” Scott squeaks.

She’s firm where Stiles is awkward and slow, and she slides right over him and pins him down, and Stiles is a little surprised when he sees the O on her shirt. It’s fine; it’s nice being on his back where he can still see, and feels warm. The scents are stronger lying right here on the mats, and Stiles feels his throat roll in a pur.

“You’re pretty cute,” Lydia says, and Stiles compares the paleness of their thighs, where her knees are spread over his.

Stiles tries to relax, his heart thundering in his chest as she grabs his hands and puts them on her hips.

“Kind of passive, though.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, feeling the shame of it burning on his face.

“Hey,” Lydia whispers, leaning her face close to his. “That’s why you’re here.”

She kisses him, and Stiles has never been kissed before. It’s amazing. It’s soft and dry and Lydia’s fringe is tickling his ears. It’s great really.

He doesn’t remember striking out at her. He doesn’t remember catching her across the cheek, but he remembers her growl and seeing the three red slashes before her hand can cover it. She has jerked away from him, a startled and pained look on her face.

Stiles cries even as Laura gently pulls him up and asks for another coach to check on Lydia and get her to a first aid kit. It feels like the whole gym has gone quiet but when he looks over his shoulder as he is led out, hardly anyone but Scott has stopped to look at him.

When he sees his dad waiting by the nearest door, expression harried, Stiles crumples into wails.

“It happens more often than you think,” Laura explains, patting his back gently as his dad wraps him up in a hug and pulls him close. “Everything runs high in the sessions – emotions, sensations. Lydia scratched someone up just last week.”

Stiles shakes his head, inconsolable. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him or why he would lash out like that. He had liked what Lydia was doing, and it had been _good_ —except. Except.

Lydia wears a white bandage over her cheek during the next week of school, and doesn’t even seem mad about it.

“Hey, Stiles,” she says in Biology. “Your nails are kind of uneven. You should let me take care of that sometime.”

“I’m so _sorry_ ,” Scott whispers, voice watery and tear-logged. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. It’s all his fault.”

Stiles shrugs, looking down at his textbook.

“Yeah. But I’m here, and he’s not. So fuck him.”

Scott starts at the swear, but takes a long sniff and rubs his arm across his face.

“Yeah. Fuck him.”

Dr. Drew tells him that even though it’s worrisome, it isn’t uncommon for first-timers to have an anxiety attack. “It’s all the stimuli,” she says. “It’s easy to become suddenly panicked.”

Still, Stiles can’t be convinced to return.

Dr. Drew stares at her clipboard for some time.

“What if I refer you to a private coach?”

His dad drops his phone in shock, looking incensed. It clatters against the exam room floor loudly.

“You—what— _how dare you?_ ”

“A private coach sponsored and certified through the clinic,” Dr. Drew emphasises. She hands his dad his phone. The screen is cracked. “Another Omega.”

Stiles tugs on his dad’s sleeve.

“Dad,” and he hates to ask him to trust his son with another adult like this, especially for this, but he’s so scared of the big gymnasium filled to the rafters with noise and scents and touching. “Maybe it’s a good idea?”

His dad looks far from convinced, and he’s got that look on his face, the one filled with guilt and helplessness, like he’s blaming himself for everything all over again.

“The coach I have in mind is an experienced one. Peter Hale is only one of the many Hales to to be involved in Omega wellness. Sessions would take place here in a controlled environment, just like with group play. You and any other person you choose to include in the paperwork will be able to monitor all activities that take place. ”

His dad wipes his face with a hand wearily.

“I want to be there for every second.”

“Of course. I’ll give you an application to fill out and give the main office a referral to forward to Peter. You’ll get a call to meet with Mr. Hale here before you decide anything.”

“And I want a third-party witness to all the sessions too,” his dad insists. “Someone not affiliated with the clinic in case you guys decide to cover your own asses should anything...”

“Our priority will always be the client, but I understand your concerns. Who would you like as your extra eyes?”

“What is Deputy Goodman up to these days?”

Dr. Drew smiles wryly.

“Sheriff Goodman, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles laughs.

“I can call her myself,” his dad grouses. “I remember the number.”

Stiles forgets to do his laundry the next week. He nervously rubs at an old stain on the front of his shirt as they drive the familiar route to the clinic. His dad makes a face at him.

Peter Hale doesn’t dress up for their first meeting at the Omega clinic. He’s wearing soft, black jogging pants and a plain t-shirt. He’s older than Stiles is expecting, not as old as his dad maybe, but definitely older than the coaches he saw at the group session.

“You must be Stiles,” he says, leaning back on the lounge chair and crossing his ankles. They’re in a small sitting room, one of the clinic’s many. The chairs are an old, powdery yellow that may have been pleasant in some past era.

Stiles shuffles his feet and plops down on a chair. His dad won’t relax, hovering over him constantly.

“Do you have your credentials?” his dad asks, arms crossed over his chest.

Peter doesn’t seem to mind his abrasiveness. He passes over a thick binder that his dad opens and pages through.

“Sooo,” Stiles sighs. “Do you help kids through sex-ed often?”

“More than others. Not as often as you’d expect. I’ve helped several kids through psuedo-heats and play mating.”

“Have you ever helped an underage Omega through a real heat?” his dad asks. Stiles gapes up at him.

“That would be illegal, Mr. Stilinski,” Peter replies, terse. “I am a licensed professional, not some hyped-up Alpha supremacist. Being that I’m an Omega, the implication is actually offensive.”

His dad actually seems to deflate with relief.

“I’ve included my personal sexual history in there as well. The clinic requires all active coaches get tested every three to five months. I was tested two weeks ago.”

They set up an appointment for the following weekend, and Stiles finds himself actually curious about Peter. He wants to know more about him, so he pours over the binder his dad hands over when they get to the car.

He’s 33, and part of a long line of Hales involved with the clinic. He’s Laura’s uncle, and he lives in a small apartment complex on the other side of town. His records state he started coaching when he was 23, and has undertaken fifteen different one-on-one play mating cases. There are even _performance reviews_. His occupation is listed as “Self-Employed”.

What does that mean? Does he sell pottery? Is he in a band? Stiles loses a few minutes imagining Peter in a torn black tank top and leopard print pants.

When it’s time for the actual session, the room they are escorted to at the clinic is a lot smaller than the open gymnasium and more comfortably furnished. There’s a couch, a low standing bed with a few pillows and no blankets. There’s still a wall made of windows, where Stiles is resolutely not looking, not wanting to see his dad, a nurse, and Sheriff Goodman all standing around watching him rub against his coach.

He’s about a thousand times more embarrassed and shy here than in the group session. Maybe it’s because all of the attention is on him.

“Why don’t we sit on the couch, Stiles?” Peter asks, sliding into the corner of the loveseat. He props his arm up along the top and pats the open spot right by his side. Stiles nearly trips getting there.

“You smell nice,” he blurts, and immediately wishes he could take it back. Peter huffs, his laugh gentle. His arm falls so it’s resting on Stiles’ shoulders.

“Thank you, Stiles. Do you want to proceed?”

Stiles nods. He cups Peter’s jaw and kisses him, wanting to lick the pink of his mouth, and it’s so weird and exciting to hear Peter’s breath so close. Stiles clambers into his lap and wraps his arms and legs around him as far as he can, clinging.

Peter’s hands are soft, like he uses lotion every day. His touch is slow and deliberate, following Stiles as he moves, neither tugging nor directing him. Stiles finds himself wanting to feel every inch of Peter’s arms and neck, where he’s fit and plush in places Stiles hasn’t grown into yet. He feels a little inadequate.

“You’ll fill out,” Peter tells him when Stiles rubs his hips against Peter’s belly. He isn’t hard and muscular like an Alpha, his facial hair fine and feathery as he rubs his jaw against Stiles’ neck.

He finds himself eager to feel all that velvety softness on his skin and wiggles quickly out of his shirt and shorts until he’s down to his briefs, and Peter doesn’t make fun of him for his clumsy haste, only follows suit by taking his own shirt off.

“Your… It’s not…?” Stiles trails off, frowning. He vaguely points where he’s sitting on Peter’s crotch.

“Ah.”

Peter’s hands rub down Stiles’ sides, making his hips roll. Stiles pants.

“It takes a little more for me achieve an erection. I am older.”

Stiles blushes.

“And this,” Peter leans forward to nuzzle Stiles’ jaw and nip at his skin. “Is about your gratification.”

Stiles leaves the first session starry-eyed and speechless.

“So… good?” his dad asks awkwardly, glancing at him as he drives them home.

“Uh-huh.”

Stiles goes to the clinic every Thursday evening to meet with Peter.

The sessions are only an hour long and Stiles finds that isn’t enough time to hump Peter’s thick thighs _and_ hold a conversation, so he learns to multitask.

Somehow, between the visits, Stiles talks about his friends and school and worms what he can out of Peter. He learns that Peter does not sell pottery or play in a band, but he does record audio books and poetry in English and Spanish.

He learns that Peter likes all kinds of music and foods, and wants to travel across the world someday. He likes spring best, because of the rain, and has a secret obsession with Minecraft.

Stiles plans to get his Xbox Live handle soon.

“...and Lydia says her mom play mated with you when you were younger,” Stiles pants, clutching Peter’s arms where he cages him against the bed. “And since you don’t do much coaching anymore, to enjoy it because she’s says you’re ‘a real catch’.”

“Did she?” Peter asks mildly. “That’s nice of her. Don’t tell Lydia’s mom I don’t remember her.”

Stiles purrs, sucking on Peter’s fingers and arching into the hand on his groin. Peter will remember _him_.

Stiles fantasizes about running into Peter around town. When he and his dad get to the grocery store, Stiles spends extra minutes craning over the aisles and looking over his shoulder. He goes to the park with Scott and Ms. Melissa, and wonders what he would do if he saw Peter there lounging at a picnic table with his nieces. Would he say hi? Would they chat? Would the others know what Peter is to Stiles just by looking?

He starts to ask his dad for a cell phone just based on the chance he might run into Peter and have an opportunity to exchange numbers.

When Stiles slides his gym shorts off the sixth week, Peter quirks an eyebrow.

“Those are different,” he says, gesturing to the colorful panties Stiles is wearing. Stiles feels his face grow mottled with prickly heat. He twists on his feet to and fro, arms over his chest.

He swallows as Peter makes a face at his continued silence. He just doesn’t… He doesn’t know what grown-up Omegas like, and he thought his usual briefs were too plain or too bulky. Too childish.

“I thought, um. You would like them?”

“Oh, honey,” Peter coos, and pulls Stiles to the low bed to straddle him. Stiles tucks his face under Peter’s chin and spreads his legs helplessly. “You wanted to impress me?”

Stiles hums, hips flexing when Peter’s fingers trail over the thin band of his panties and grab onto the back of his thighs. Stiles feels warm and wet, his cheeks sliding together as he arches his back and rubs his hard cock against Peter. He wishes he could get under Peter’s annoying sweat pants, to press his leaking arousal right where Peter is warmest. He smells so good there, Stiles bets.

“You’re so sweet, Stiles,” Peter says, his voice rumbly and breathy against his ear.

Stiles growls, crawling up Peter’s torso until he can press his mouth against his shoulder and rut, use Peter’s body to his satisfaction. When he feels his orgasm cresting, Stiles bites into Peter’s neck, his teeth holding fast. He feels Peter tense, surprised, feels the jerk of his bigger cock under his layers. Stiles moans around the skin in his mouth.

“Shh,” Peter is murmuring, petting Stiles’ hair, and wedging a finger into Stiles’ mouth to pry his teeth away. It takes a moment for Stiles to realize he’s still growling.

Stiles breathes heavily, hiding his face and licking along the bright red mark he’s made.

When he leaves to go clean off, Peter’s face looks worried.

Stiles starts feeling weird the next week around lunch time.

“You got an itch or something?” Scott asks.

Stiles forces himself to stop scratching at his neck, but he can’t sit still. He squirms uncomfortably, reaching for his shirt collar.

“I think my tag is scratching me,” he mutters, and gets distracted by how suddenly he’s ravenously hungry. Scott complains a little, but lets him eat off his tray.

He’s still picking at his skin and twitching when his dad picks him up from school and takes him over to the Omega clinic.

“Jeez, Stiles. Something got you crawling up the walls?” his dad asks when they pull into the parking lot.

“Mm,” Stiles grunts, ripping his shirt off with a sigh, vibrating. He wriggles out of his jeans, his gym shorts on underneath. His hand is on the door when his dad catches him by the shoulder and eyes his back.

“You’ve scraped yourself red all over,” he chastises. “I told you not to share soap in the locker room—”

“ _Daaad_ ,” Stiles whines, rolling his eyes. He jumps out of the car, nose in the air. He can practically smell Peter from here, mixed with all the other heady scents of the Omega Clinic. Everything seems stronger today.

“You’re wound up,” Peter says when Stiles bursts through the door to their private room. Stiles pounces, rubbing his face on Peter’s skin and purring. His teeth nibble at the bruise he left on Peter’s neck happily.

“ _Peter_ ,” he sighs, feeling something in his skin settle and grow warm. He’s already hard just imagining playing with him today, the seat of his gym shorts damp and chaffing. “You smell _so good_.”

His arms and legs feel heavy and loose, his whole body tingling.

“I was thinking about you all day,” he moans, grinding into Peter’s soft stomach. He can hardly keep his eyes open, mouth panting and making a wet spot over Peter’s nipple. He suckles there, humming, his hands pawing at Peter’s sweat pants, tugging at the draw-strings.

“No, Stiles,” Peter reminds him gently, prying his hands away and kissing his fingers.

Stiles pouts. He bites at Peter’s nipple.

“Now you’re just being a brat.”

Stiles grumbles, rubbing his itchy, hot cock along Peter’s hipbone, wishing he could take his panties off and get Peter’s skin wet with his slick.

“ _Stiles_ , no.”

Peter rips Stiles hands away from where he’d been trying to sneak them under his waistband. A hand grasps his chin firmly.

“Look at me. Open your eyes.”

Stiles does so, reluctantly, writhing on Peter’s lap. Peter is looking at him closely, and Stiles doesn’t understand why Peter is holding him away when they could be kissing. So many kisses.

“You are going into heat.”

Stiles blinks slowly.

“Mm. Yeah, I’ve had it before. It was _awful_ , but you’re here this time. It goes away after I come a couple of times.”

He shimmies his hips a little to suggest doing just that. Stiles has gotten pretty good at using Peter as an orgasm jungle-gym. He’s managed five in the one hour allotment, and could hardly use his legs when it was time to go home.

“No, Stiles. Not pseudo-heat. _Heat_ , heat. Stay here.”

Peter begins to lift Stiles off of his lap, and Stiles gasps.

“No, no, don’t leave,” Stiles whines frantically. He grasps at Peter’s arms only to be shaken off. “Peter, I need you, don’t go.”

Stiles actually feels his eyes tear up as Peter looks down at him, his face all twisted up like he’s the one being abandoned.

“I’m going to go speak with your father so we can alert Dr. Drew. She’ll help you decide what to do.”

Peter points at the edge of the bed as he hastily pulls his shirt on and rushes to the door. “Stay.”

“Nooo,” Stiles cries, bending forward and smashing his face into the mattress. “I’ll hate you forever if you leave!”

He’s already gone.

Stiles rolls around in a daze, unable to get his limbs to work as a cohesive whole in order to sit up. He whines and cries, feeling exposed and alone and rejected.

“Peter, Peter,” he whispers hoarsely into the sheets.

Stiles perks up when he hears the door open again, but it’s his dad half-running to his side and murmuring something urgently.

“He left me,” Stiles wails. “He left me.”

“Okay, baby, just take some deep breaths.”

Stiles shakes his head, twisting around so he can curl up away from his dad’s brushing hands.

“Dr. Drew is coming to sedate you for a little while and get you somewhere more comfortable.”

He makes a high pitched whine, and goes to scratch at his neck but something gets in the way. There’s a nurse with a needle, but he doesn’t feel it when it pierces his skin.

They move him to a different room, one with no windows or spectators. There’s a moment when Stiles’ heart leaps when he thinks Peter will be coming as well, but he sinks quickly into sullen misery after it becomes clear no one but a nurse will be coming in or out.

Everything is foggy. His body feels feverish and soaked, but he’s too weak to do anything about it. He just lays in the soft, single bed and ruts his hips until he’s too exhausted.

He wakes up feeling crusty and parched, to a nurse giving him a sponge bath. He’s connected to an IV.

“You doing okay, honey?” she asks, gently scrubbing at Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles makes a throaty _mmrmph_ sound.

“I’ll go get your dad once we finish up, okay?”

She quickly swabs him down with floral scented soap and wipes away all the tacky parts on his skin. Stiles is grateful, and hums tiredly when she pulls the blankets back up over his body and tucks him in.

His dad comes in with Dr. Drew, looking harried.

“Hey, son,” he says gently, rubbing his palm over Stiles’ buzzed head.

“How long was I out?” Stiles demands. “Three weeks?”

His dad laughs, rubbing a hand down his face. “No, thank god. It’s just been a day. You missed school.”

“Just in time for the weekend,” he quips.

Dr. Drew draws up her rolling chair and clasps her hands in her lap.

“We’re relieved you’ve recovered so quickly,” she starts. “It was my intention to let you go through your heat naturally, but you became dangerously feverish, so we had to interfere. Bodies as young as yours simply aren’t as well equipped to deal with heats.”

Stiles watches the fluid drip lazily through the looping tube of his IV.

“Did I have my heat so early because of Mr. McCall?”

It’s very quiet for a few seconds.

“Stiles...” his dad chokes.

“We’ll never be able to measure the effects of your trauma on your hormones. But there does seem to be a correlation between premature heats and hormonal disruptions,” Dr. Drew tells him. “You’re not without options, though. So, I think the healthiest option for you right now is to keep any future heats delayed with puberty blockers. It’s a straight-forward treatment, and you can stop taking them when you’re closer to the average age for a first heat.”

Stiles sighs and wonders what point in life he’ll stop stumbling into Rafael McCall’s grave.

Dr. Drew tells them about how the treatment would work, how it doesn’t change anything, just keeps puberty from progressing. She says once the IV bag is empty, he’s free to go home.

His dad holds his hand and sits with him for a little while.

“Uh, Peter is waiting to hear about you. He went home last night, but came back today.”

“He’s _here?_ ” Stiles asks eagerly, then remembers he’s mad at him.

“Do you want me to let him in?”

Stiles pretends to think about it before nodding.

His dad kisses his forehead before getting up and leaving.

Peter pokes his head in a few minutes later with a cup of bright blue shaved ice.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Stiles shrugs, casting his eyes away. He sniffs, looking at his nails.

Peter takes the seat his dad had vacated.

“Something on your mind?” he asks.

Stiles shakes his head, risking a quick glance at Peter then trying to pretend he hadn’t.

Peter passes him the shaved ice, and Stiles accepts it without protest, happy to have something for his dry throat.

“Do I still get to play mate with you?” Stiles blurts out tearfully.

Peter tuts. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

"You don't love me," Stiles cries miserably.

He hears Peter make a soft noise in his throat as he’s scooped up easily from the pillows and rearranged into Peter’s lap. When he finally looks up, Peter is waiting patiently. He brushes at Stiles’ eyebrows and ears affectionately.

“Stiles... you are like my _child_. I care for you deeply. It’s my job _and_ my desire. Don’t misunderstand me. I won’t pretend I haven’t noticed how attached you have become.”

Peter sighs. He rubs a hand through his hair. “To pursue anything further would be inappropriate. Damaging. _Illegal_.”

“I know,” Stiles mutters mulishly. Peter tucks Stiles against his chest, and Stiles can feel the dull thud of his heart right on his ear, his body rising and falling with Peter’s breaths.

“I haven’t spent a lot of time considering a partner. It hasn’t been of much interest to me. But one thing I know I need is an equal. It just isn’t possible for us to be together in the way you’re wanting. On top of your history...”

“I _know_ ,” Stiles groans, hiding his face in the crease of Peter’s arm and inhaling the scent of him.

Peter begins to pet the back of his neck, his nails scratching lightly and Stiles squirms until he’s further on top of Peter, purring deep in his throat.

“I’m not promising anything.”

Stiles holds his breath.

“We’ll revisit this conversation when you’re older if that’s something you want. And we’re telling your father about this.”

“Yeah, okay. No promises,” Stiles agrees.

“Hmm. Good boy,” Peter says, bringing up Stiles’ melting cup of shaved ice to lick away the juice running down the side.

Stiles finds the bruise on Peter’s neck and slots his teeth there, grinning.

 

 


End file.
